


Victor and the Vanquished

by roger_that



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Comfort Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 02:25:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15764697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roger_that/pseuds/roger_that
Summary: Wimbledon 2008 was the time when Roger Federer's stranglehold on the tennis world finally began to loosen. One particular Spaniard had a lot to do with that. It wasn't easy.(Or, Roger turns up at Rafa's after Wimbledon 2008 asking for, well, sex)





	Victor and the Vanquished

**Author's Note:**

> This is written mainly because I've got exams coming and what better way to revise than write fiction right? 
> 
> It's heavy on angst like all my fics lately thanks to one particular long fic!! 
> 
> I hope you like it because I've wanted to do a fic about Wimbledon 2008 for a long time so here it is. Could be placed in the Living universe but I mean, it's not really happy so... upto you ;)
> 
> Also, does go back and forth a lot, hopefully made clear with tense and grammar as you read :)
> 
> Thanks! XD
> 
> xx

He was stretched out beneath him because that is what he wanted. Wanted to feel like he was going to dissolve and there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do about it, wanted to feel the explosion of emotions and being unable to run away from it, wanted to feel destroyed - the word the Spaniard would often use in his press conferences and Roger would always find amusing - so that every piece of his mind screamed with humiliation. He wanted that because that is what he wanted.

He wanted to feel the defeat. No, not feel. Embrace. He wanted to embrace it, let it crawl under his very skin with every swipe of Rafa's fingers and he wanted to accept it in a way that it would finally break him; because the dam still hadn't broken. Too many years of practiced calm holding it all together still, even now, when really all he wanted - all he was _aching_  to do - was just break down.

It was necessary, essential even sometimes, that life crushed you. He wanted to feel crushed, powerless and totally defeated but his own willpower and mental strength had refused to waver in the face of it.  _Anticipation_ , maybe that was what it should've been, it was a long time coming after last two successively harder wins against Rafa on centre court and losing spectacularly only last month, maybe he should've anticipated this. Winning didn't come to people who anticipated losses though, believing you could crush anybody any time was what made the fabric of a champion. It had its down sides, of course, like unable to accept defeat. All the what if's coming to play in the head, what if I had converted that break point, what if I had played better from the onset, what if I wasn't two sets down to begin with. Tactics his mind used to placate him, lessen the blow when he saw Rafa climb into the Royal box and his box and celebrate the win - it _shouldn't_ have been like that.

Now though - tied to the bedpost with his own damn cardigan, his own embroidered initials still shimmering in the spotlights of Rafa's room every time he looked up at it, and his own designed product preventing him from moving those same hands which had played and lost the match - he felt like it was finally beginning to sink in. Vanquished.

Acceptance was not his forte earlier - when the cameras were on, the flashes spearing him in the eye, the people around him talking to him, their words empty shells of hollow meaning to his ears and the world still spinning, the _match_ still spinning in his head - but now, it was slowly becoming a reality. It was becoming a reality with every bead of sweat that rolled mockingly down his back, leaving a blazing trail in its wake; the sharp realisation that that bead was there because Rafa was touching him was enough to push him towards the edge of sanity. Rafa was _making_ him sweat. Just like on court, just like three hours earlier. Just like in the match, on centre-court. He was tied, struggling against the all-encompassing force that was this _boy_ and he was utterly, completely helpless in the face of it.

"Roger," Rafa's voice was a wreck. It was selfish he was doing this to the Spaniard and maybe he knew that somewhere deep within himself. But the guilt hadn't taken too long to turn to contempt. Couldn't the Spaniard even take a small sting after what Roger had taken this evening? Rafa had owned Roger. Owned.The King was dethroned at last, the grass was no longer his pavilion, the Cathedral was no more his dwelling. Rafa had clawed him down with all the strength he could muster just three hours ago, muscles rippling beneath bronze skin, brown locks damp with sweat but still unwilling to show any mercy. Not that Roger wanted any but why was he scared of Roger now? He had been scared of him ever since Roger showed up uninvited to his room - practically glaring at everyone else till they left the room - and then shamelessly stumbling to Rafa's mouth, without as much as a permission, before attaching their lips in a graceless, brutal kiss.

"Fuck me, ja?" Roger had slurred when he had parted enough to speak, panting hard in Rafa's mouth. Apparently he had been drunk, as he was told repeatedly by Mirka on his way here, but he wouldn't believe her. He wasn't drunk; he was only just waking up. And he needed to wake up fully. And he needed this. He needed to feel like a defeated king. A fallen monarch. A dying warrior and it would only be befitting, since he had lost now anyhow, that he lose properly. Lost kings weren't allowed dignity in their last moments. They weren't spared humiliation. They were made to feel their defeat, taste the dirt. And he would only know now that it was a right custom; that is how one should treat their fallen enemies. Like property, stripped off every last shred of respect.

So why he should be dealt with any differently by Rafa, he couldn't understand. He couldn't understand why Rafa had tried to turn him away, escort him back to his room - still wearing that humble and self-deprecating demeanor. Roger's confusion had taken a turn for the worse soon enough though, lashing out at the younger man, asking him if he pitied Roger to the extent that he couldn't even meet his eye anymore and telling him he couldn't stand, or rather didn't need, his sympathy anymore if that was all he could offer him.

The younger man's lip had trembled from the harshness of the words, his expression betraying the sting of Roger's words and his eyes wells of emotions. Roger had seen it in his eyes countless times before, the idolization. The insistent _worship_  Rafa provided Roger, like a god, like he was unbeatable, the best he often said. Still, beating him every time though, still beating the best, still beating the god. Roger had pondered sometimes, despite the shy smiles and hesitant glances the Spaniard gave him thinking he wouldn't notice, about what it made Rafa if he could always beat the god, as he called him. Made him invincible, that's what it made him. He pondered also, whether in some grim and self-praising way, Rafa was, in fact, only complimenting himself whenever he complimented Roger. A brag hidden in behind clever words. A display for the world but empty underneath.

But he couldn't be sure, the dim glow of the room still only flashing reverence in dark brown eyes, despite being the victor of the day. It should've been comforting to be assured it wasn't a charade of humility that Rafa put on, but rather genuine belief that Roger was the best, but it angered him even more because Roger didn't want reverence. He sought something else, something harsher, something he knew Rafa could actually give him. Stolen glimpses - sometimes unintended, sometimes not so much, from locker rooms and showers, sometimes catching a visitor to a hotel room, sometimes elsewhere - were all enough to figure out that Rafa hung out with guys, and not really in a platonic way. There was also the small but lingering issue that it had never gone unnoticed by him, that Rafa liked him, maybe more than liked even - Rafa almost craved him. And if it hadn't been for other, more stable and concrete support networks in Roger's life - like Mirka - he may have given into Rafa's subtle, but no less pronounced, invitations a long time back. Maybe it wasn't to be until tonight. But what a way he had chosen to find his way to this room tonight. Of all nights, chances and encounters - it had to be _today_. Today, of all the remaining 364 days in a year.

"Roger," Rafa's voice brought him back again but he could only muster a half-hearted grunt in response, trying so hard to look at him but being only able to look at a point somewhere past his angelic face "Roger, please," Rafa pleaded him, begged him, to stop this. To stop whatever this was about and snap out but Roger only closed his eyes and arched up, drawing a gasp from both of them as hardness rubbed hardness. He could sense Rafa trying to bury his face in his shoulder, seeking some comfort perhaps, some sort of a confirmation or relief, but Roger had nothing to give him right now. Nothing at all.

He could only arch up and strain against the cardigan that he insisted he be tied in. Rafa's eyes had swelled with tears the moment Roger had pulled the cardigan off his own shoulders and pushed it into his hands, telling him to tie him up to the bed between desperate attacks on his full lips. Rafa had gasped in surprise, shock even, and had shook his head fervently, fear clutching his dark eyes. Roger hadn't relented though. He had taken Rafa's hand and wrapped the Spaniard's fingers around his own wrist, squeezing over them till they had imprinted themselves on his skin, leaving red marks for the world to see. Owned.

"Do this to me," he had whispered, hurt mingled with determination and alcohol a scary mix in his tone and Rafa hadn't found the words to refuse, because he knew no matter what he said tonight, Roger will take what he wanted, how he wanted. So he had tied him up, Roger already having discarded his top, the wool stretching tightly around strong wrists, but then he had taken a step back unsurely, watching Roger's sides heaving under the soft golden light. Roger had looked at him then, through hooded eyes, and had allowed his knees to fall open in an invitation to Rafa, a strange act of submission which was terrifyingly paradoxical to what was actually happening.

Rafa hadn't even been close to taking a step towards the bed though. He had just stood and watched, raptured, stunned, dumbfounded. But Roger had clearly left all sense of modesty at the door because he thrust his hips against the air, erection clearly visible through the long trousers he was still wearing - which on anyone else would've looked every bit pathetic but Roger had carried them off with grace even through a loss - and was arching off the bed almost obscenely now, head thrown back in agitation.

Luckily for Roger, he didn't have to do much more than that to have Rafa scrambling back to the bed to calm him down, telling him it's okay, telling him to relax, telling him to think again of what he was asking - all noble words but unfortunately falling on deaf ears.

And after five minutes Rafa was still pleading, _still_  - even as he complied to everything Roger asked, after straddling Roger hips, after taking his trousers off to leave the shorts underneath and after running his fingers through his tossled locks looking to comfort him somehow - he was asking Roger to give up and let himself be untied.

And Roger couldn't take it anymore because how many times did he have to ask to be given at least one thing today? He gritted his teeth and ground hard against the bed, then arched harder against Rafa, drawing the second gasp in five seconds and writhing slightly with the sharp bolts of pleasures running through him at the sudden pressure.

"Touch me," he hissed through his teeth, "please Rafa please, touch me, fuck me, please do it." His tone took a desperate quality suddenly, voice trembling with arousal and pain and he couldn't stand the heat Rafa was radiating any longer, he couldn't stand the sharp edge of arousal, which had turned into a constant ache in the pit of his stomach - sharp enough to drive him crazy but also dull enough to keep the climax at bay. He closed his eyes in frustration, "please," he pleaded again, barely even a whisper this time because he needed this so much and yet Rafa was still eluding him. Even now. He wondered whether this was the Spaniard's way of letting him know who the winner was here and maybe this was also a way to feel the defeat, through frustration and being kept on edge and denied touch or release. But his thoughts ended abruptly, a razor sharp current travelling through his outstretched arms overhead as Rafa's fingers dragged themselves over the straining biceps, already sore from the match but even more sore from the comparatively lighter weight of the runner-up's plate he had been holding all evening, and yes, he needed to reminded of that. He needed that reminder. The trophy wasn't his. Not this time. Not the sixth time in a row. It was ripped out of his hands by the very pair of hands that were now tracing his arms.

Rafa fingers were leaving a scorching trail in their wake, spreading liquid lava over the already burning muscles of Roger's tied hands. He rubbed them back and forth, from Roger's elbow to his shoulder and back again, creating a stream of cool hotness just over the surface of Roger's sweaty, over-sensitized skin, occasionally scraping it with chewed nails, making Roger moan his name with every sharp scratch.

"Yeah that," his breathy moan hitched just as one of Rafa's finger traced down his shoulder, to his chest and to the small erect nipple and twisted lightly at the nub. "God-" he gasped at the pain pleasure of the touch, shooting right to his ignored cock and making him ache with lust and want and need. The  _need_ to have this was overwhelming, Rafa's hands all over him, making him whimper and shudder with every new touch, every new sensitive spot they explored with unrivaled curiosity. He found Rafa studying him with concentration, features set in a manner Roger had seen too often from across the court, and he closed his eyes almost instantly, not being able to stand the same stare any longer.

"Why you doing this Roger?" Rafa asked, even his own voice raspy with need, between gasps and nips that he so generously placed on the joint between Roger's neck and shoulder now, fingers playing over his chest, flicking and pinching the already sensitive nipples, and Roger could only whimper again, shaking his head. Rafa pulled back slightly, forcing Roger to open his eyes to glare at him because he couldn't pull back _now_.

"Why?" Rafa asked again in earnest and Roger could only blink blearily at him, the alcohol making any coherent thinking a monumental task now. He couldn't answer Rafa because he _didn't_  know, he didn't know why he was here, aching to be fucked by the man who had kicked his ass on court and reduced him to tears seconds, not even minutes, after he had walked off it. All he knew was he needed to _feel_  the defeat etch itself over every sinew and muscle of his body before he could believe it for real and Rafa was his defeat embodied. He was everything Roger had lost that evening. Nothing better to feel defeat than have the person who embodied it ravish you.

But nothing could be arranged into logical thought now, articulation crumbling to a stammering mess under Rafa's touch on his chest, fingers running through the hair, stopping, resting, just below the belly button. Roger groaned in anticipation, muscles under Rafa's hand spasming with lust, with the need for that hand to move further down. He realised his legs weren't tied, unlike his hands, and pushed his knees into Rafa's back to pull him in harder to get the pressure he wanted, letting out a strangled cry at the explosions behind his eyes at the action, sparks of raw pleasure pooling deep in his stomach somewhere, as the tip of his cock pressed painfully against Rafa's - the strained trousers giving enough leeway to restrained pleasure.

"Fuck Roger," Rafa moaned exasperated with Roger's insistence and his own slipping resistance and ground back hard, clearly losing whatever little control he had maintained over the proceedings of the evening so far. He grabbed the sides of Roger's face, keeping his head still, and kissed him, tongue gaining instance access as Roger opened up, and he kept the pressure on his hips firm as he did, drowning Roger's whimpers into his mouth greedily but slowly.

Roger responded hungrily to the welcome heat of Rafa's mouth, tilting his head slightly, despite Rafa having held it firmly, to give him better access. Rafa's lips were soft and his tongue was a wet slide of heat. His own few glasses of vodka, or whatever it was that he had drunk, mingling with the taste of victory in Rafa's mouth. Roger could only bask in it, let it assail him with every swipe of Rafa's tongue, reminding him it wasn't his this time. The more Rafa deepened the kiss, the more Roger wondered that maybe it was the taste of the trophy that he was feeling more, the  _physical_ taste of the trophy rather than the imagined one of victory. Of the five times that Roger had won that damn golden thing, he had not once had the audacity to put his mouth on it, not even once, not finding it appropriate or necessary - respect for tradition mixed with his own Swiss politeness too big to even think of doing something like that. But this man had tasted the trophy in his first victory over it. Rafa had claimed the trophy, marked it with his teeth so that every time Roger won it from now, he would still feel the ghost of  _Rafa's_  teeth on it, reminding him of tonight, of _this_. Roger could only growl at the thought, pushing in to catch Rafa's tongue between his teeth and sucking at the metallic taste greedily, swallowing it as best he could. Somehow, the metallic tang woven into Rafa's mouth made _his_ solo victory seem more fulfilled than Roger's pentagon of triumphs, and the realisation of that was unbearable - to know a future where a constant ghost of Rafa would be imprinted on the trophy, on _tradition_ itself; it was unbearable enough to drive Roger's teeth into the tongue he had captured and earn a yelp from Rafa as the taste of trophy was replaced with a new copperish tinge and somehow the distraction was comforting because the trophy was too much to taste right now. He couldn't take part in tasting the trophy, because it wasn't his. He had no right to feel it, any of it, not even its taste on the victor's tongue.

Rafa pulled back from the kiss, pupils blown like black saucers and breathing laboured in effort to still grasp the last remnants of control. He weaved one hand through Roger's disheveled hair, pushing them back from his face, and tilting Roger's head back slightly, exposing his neck more, Roger fully expecting a hard, retorting bite to marr his smooth skin, but he couldn't bring himself to care - in fact, he wanted it. But when Rafa buried his face into his neck, placing soft open kisses, licking the skin there, sucking gently with every kiss, wetting Roger's neck with saliva and sweat, there was no sign of the bite.

Instead the headboard creaked slightly above them and then Roger heard a yell somewhere in the background - which he later realised was his own - because there were sharp electric explosions running through his every limb suddenly, without warning, making him shudder and strain hard against the cardigan. Rafa's other hand had reached down between their bodies, and was now kneading at the the wet material of Roger's shorts, massaging his handness with strong fingers and Roger couldn't much more than breathe. He had to focus on that. In and out. In and out. He was expecting pain, instead he got pleasure and the shock was so electrifying, he feared he'd forget to breathe if he only concentrated on Rafa's hand on him; its warmth seeping through the insolently thin fabric of his damned shorts.

"Take them off for god's sake," it was meant as a growl, but only sounded like a pathetic whine that would be embarrassing if he cared. Rafa pulled back again, loss of body heat a physical pain inside him now, and Roger forced himself to open his eyes and look at Rafa - his lips swollen rid, face flushed pink, breathing hard and eyes bleary and aroused. He sat between Roger legs now, pulling off the shorts and boxers in one stroke, Roger lifting his feet to help him, and plunging them somewhere Roger didn't care to look. His tongue was hanging out of his lips, the brown waves of hair beginning to cling to his face as sweats bloomed over him. Similar, very similar, to when the match had started - just lightly sweating, just lightly exhausted, just lightly everything. Only the headband was missing. Maybe they were in the locker room, the match still waiting to begin, the crowd still thrumming just around the corner, the afternoon still fresh and bright. Rafa had caught his eye then, a few hours back, and had only offered a small smile and a clasp of their hands, brown eyes set in determination. Brown eyes were on him once again now, slightly hooded, darker than before; those same eyes, in a very different situation.

"Oh- god, fu-hhh," thoughts exploded again when he nearly kicked Rafa in the side as the first lubed finger slid in without warning - or maybe Rafa had warned him, he hadn't been listening as such. Every muscle in the thigh and back tensed at the intrusion, keeping his mind firmly in the _now_ , his ass clenching tightly around the intruder - the first finger of the right hand.

"God-oh," gasping as Rafa slid in more and Roger whithed on it. Not the left hand, he noted in some still-functioning part of his mind, not the left. Left only on court, whislt opening the backhand like a second forehand, ripping it towards him with unrivalled spin and brute force, rendering his own backhand, as elegant and uselessly beautiful as it was, completely helpless. But not in bed, a righty in bed.

"Roger calm down," Rafa's shaky voice just barely getting through Roger's misty train of thoughts, all sense of determination long since slipped away from the younger man. This was more like a whimper, like a kitten in a corner, even as he rubbed through the fine hair of Roger's thigh, thumb delving in the muscles to relax him, stop him tensing so bad. The thumb was driving Roger crazy, firm against his skin, delving deeper into muscle, moving towards where he really wanted it but only ever stopping at the crease of his groin, tantalising inches away from where the ache really was.

"Fuck it, just fuck m- ahhhh" the requested turned to maon again as Rafa crooked his finger brushing over unknown spots of pleasure. This was becoming more like an exploration but it was overwhelming, suddenly being exposed to new senses you didn't know you could ever feel. It rendered him helpless, so beautifully helpless, befitting the vanquished.

"Oh god, more please, give me this Rafa... give me more." It didn't take long before he was pushing against Rafa's finger in him, grinding against the mattress then the finger in rhythm.

"Two now," Rafa whispered but Roger barely had time before he added another finger and the stretch was like a burn threatening to tear him. It hurt, but god he wanted it. He wanted pain, so much of it and he pushed back almost too hard against Rafa's fingers, hissing in welcomed pain as the move buried Rafa's fingers knuckle deep inside him. He heard Rafa swear under his breathe and immidietely pull back, leaving him empty and cold suddenly.

"No!" Roger followed the fingers blindly, head grinding in the pillow, hips pushing to find them again, craving the feeling of fullness, the abrupt emptiness unbearable, "don't pull out, please Rafa, please, uhhhh," he whined, eyes squeezing shut at the loss and he could only hope Rafa wasn't going to deny him now.

"Roger, you can no push back like that, I don't wanna hurt you-"

"But I _want_  you to hurt me," Roger roared back, still shamelessly pushing his hips towards Rafa, hoping he'll take it. When nothing touched him for another few seconds he was forced to lift his head and glare at Rafa, who was sitting completely still betwen his legs now, brows set in firm determination and resistance depsite the arousal evident in his eyes, and looking at him in a mix of hurt and caution.

"I am not gonna hurt you." He said, voice still shaky but firmer than before and Roger whined again, heels digging into the mattress as he arched up. "Please," was the only feeble whisper he could manage, as he tried bringing his legs together to squeeze himself but not being able to with Rafa sitting in between.

"No push back," Rafa warned him as he shifted closer again, concern clear as daylight in every touch and word and Roger didn't want to agree. He didn't want to say yes because he wanted pain, and he didn't like that Rafa cared about him, but there was only so much he could do right now because he needed something, anything right now. So he nodded frantically, reluctant to meet Rafa's gaze and instead choosing to look at the ceiling.

Rafa grunted his approval, seemingly satisfied, and then parted Roger's legs more, drizzling cold lube on his crack which had Roger almost jumping and twisting away.

"Don't want lube," he moaned, struggled against Rafa's hands to stop more lube being drizzled - resenting the possibility that the lube might take the pain away - but then stilled altogether when two wet fingers entered him at once and he felt himself clench tightly around them, resisting their entrance and welcoming it at the same time. Rafa didn't move for a few seconds, allowing him feel them first, and then set a slow in and out rhythm, moving in an inch and then out again and even through the slow and careful preparations, Roger could feel the stretch around the ring of muscles around his hole, burning with every entry. But it subsided and Roger found himself pushing back slightly, fucking Rafa's fingers, welcoming them in till they were eventually buried knuckles deep and out again. His moans only increased in volume and frequency as he felt the fingers steadily scissoring him open, stretching him out for more and then there was a long shudder tensing him up almost violently. He realised a few seconds later what happened. Rafa's other hand, equally lubed, was stroking him steadily, thumb caressing the slit after every up thrust and leaving him shaking like a leaf. It was too much suddenly - the fingers in him and the strong left hand, the same thumb which held the racket, now swiping over the head of his cock every second - and Roger arched up almost backing away from the overload of stimulation. And then it stopped, a breather, though hardly relieving but before Roger could protest he felt Rafa's mouth on him, hungry and wet but somehow still caring and gentle. He opened for him greedily, tongues meeting before their lips, and he lifted his head to lean up to Rafa's mouth, as much as he could with hands still being tied down, lips almost hurting at the corner with the stretch of it but still he wanted more, allowing Rafa's tongue to pervade every inch of his mouth and go as deep as possible - the back of his throat aching with the effort he was putting in opening up.

And then Rafa was at his entrance, nudging slightly and Roger gasped, rubbing his chest against Rafa's for comfort and Rafa didn't deny him this time, snaked an arm between Roger's back and bed and pulled him closer to himself as he entered him slowly. An inch in, an inch out, mimicking the movement of his fingers a moment ago. Roger screwed his eyes shut at the burn, tipping to the point of painful, like he had wanted, even with all that preparation and perhaps now he knew why Rafa was so adamant on preparing him well, not giving him the 'rough treatment' that he had been begging for - because he _knew_  what was best for Roger, he _cared_ about it, cared  _for_ Roger. Their lips were still attached but they weren't really kissing anymore, just hovering over each other as they concentrated on the point that joined their bodies together and merged them into one, even if temporarily.

Rafa waited for Roger's tension to drain away, fingers drawing small circles on his back, keeping him close to him, "calm down Rogi, is okay, is okay... babé," he whispered soft words into his ear, so quiet Roger wondered if he was imagining them tickle against his ear. Roger didn't miss the use of 'Rogi', ears accustomed to hearing the name itself but not from Rafa, never from Rafa. It brought back a stab of guilt, memories of Mirka making an unwanted appearance in his head but they weren't hard to suppress right now - alcohol and lust and the need to feel defeat clouding everything else in his already foggy thoughts. The only actual feeling being Rafa's cock just barely in him.

Rafa waited till Roger was pushing against him again, limbs trembling with arousal and need for release. Then he moved again, burrowing deeper into the heat of Roger's body, his ankles crossed at the small of his back now, and his arms still stretched above, exposing him to Rafa to in ways he would've never imagined. The fine hair on his chest rubbing against Rafa's chest, ticklish in their touch. All those half-hugs at the net, _today's_  half hug, separating skin from skin with thin fabric, a thousand spectators watching every move like a hawk, every touch measured and controlled, with only ever the guilty indulging of letting their foreheads meet briefly. It had always been a tempting prospect, even with Mirka around, even with all the stability and sanity his life provided, the temptation to commit this unforgivable crime; sin even, as some saw it - loving another man an issue that was openly frowned upon by the best of men. It would be lying to say it hadn't crossed his mind in showers, on nights where the other side of the bed was empty or in places no one was looking. _This_ \- touch of naked skin against skin sending blunt electric friction running wild through his nerves - was a thing of his deepest, darkest fantasies, allowed to be imagined only when borders between sleep and awareness were so slim he could pretend it never happened the next morning.

But now, he couldn't pretend anymore, the sharp pain of Rafa's cock buried all the way inside him now. This, _this_ right now, wasn't fantasy. It was hurt and pain and everything else but not a dream. Certainly not. It was reality now.

"Rogi please," Rafa's whisper fished him back somewhat, and he blinked at him with concentrated effort. "Please," he begged again and Roger relented, pushing thoughts away, pushing thinking away, allowing himself to feel Rafa. Feel what he came here to feel, the defeat, the victory, the triumph of Rafa over himself, the many emotions riding high in him, intoxicating him more than any alcohol ever could.

"M-move," he whispered back and Rafa did. Pulling out nearly all the way, till Roger feared he would pull out altogether, and then in again with one stroke, balls deep, his familiarity with the routine painfully evident by his strokes but Roger didn't care, couldn't care less.

Rafa shifted a bit, both of them gasping, and in a moment a flare of white hot  _something_ shot all the way up his spine and pulsed violently to every last nerve in his toes and all the way upto his head, filling him with an unprecedented buzz of boiling energy, and Roger _shouted_ , no other word for it, as he thrust up uncontrollably into Rafa, gasping and straining his arms so hard the headboard creaked and banged against the wall.

"Oh fuc-god, Ra-fuck," he panted hard, feeling the tremors running through him now and then Rafa hit the spot again, making him feel the same tingling all over again and with every thrust it only grew louder and louder, all their moans and gasps drowning in its icy hot _burn_.

There was no stopping Rafa anymore, as he speared him to the hilt, catching his prostrate every single time, muscles over-working with the strain of it all. The smell of sweat and sex coursing through them and drops of sweat from Rafa's face dripping onto Roger's face even as their mouths never detached. Rafa's hands made their way up his body, gliding over his sweaty sides, a particular spot making him twitch and so Rafa stroked it again and again till Roger was almost crying with the stimulation. And then he moved up again, relenting, Roger's breath hitching as fingers traced his armpits, making him shiver and shudder, but didn't stop there - instead fingers carried on, finding their way to the cardigan tying Roger's wrist together, picking at the wool to loosen the knots and it was too late when Roger realised what was happening and then he groaned and hissed his pain as blood rushed back to his arms.

Rafa lowered them slowly, massaging the sore muscles there and bringing them back down to rest by Roger's side. Even in the midst of their frantic thrusting, Roger was glaring at Rafa, half-hurt half-raged.

"Can't Rogi, can't" Rafa's words were earnest, warm, not a trace of malice in them and Roger could see how it was a question of morality for Rafa - to have sex with him with his hands tied throughout the whole thing. He wanted to argue though, wanted to object, but the pressure in him was building to the point of bursting and he simply didn't have the concentration to form a proper sentence right now, let alone argue. So he brought his hands around Rafa's neck, stroking his back gently, allowing fingers to delve into the muscles there and pulling him in more with every thrust.

"Yes Rafa, harder please, harder... godplease," his moans were senseless even to himself but there was no stopping them. And then there was Rafa's hand on his cock stroking him without holding back anymore, pumping to the point of painful and thrusting with a force that would've broken anyone else.

Roger clawed at him blindly feeling the end approach and then he found Rafa's mouth on his again, tongue fucking his mouth in sync with the his hand and hips, every thrust building pressure on his prostrate and edging him closer to finality.

"Is no separate now, Roger" Rafa muffled into his mouth, puasing his tongue as he did, "win, lose all same right now." And that was accompanied by a single flick of his wrist, thumb fluttering over the head with enough pressure and another thrust of the wet hot tongue; and Roger arched, convoluted, slamming up hard into Rafa, wanting to merge into him as he came, wanting to dissolve, explode, feel utterly helpless and defeated as Rafa kept pumping him hard and strong, milking every last drop from his body till there was nothing left to give, just like in the match. His mouth fell open in a silent scream as his spine liquidated and his legs didn't exist anymore. Thoughts seemed to evaporate into nothing as he felt Rafa fill him up a few second later, spilling his seed into him in warm pulses and slamming hard a few more times, before the need subsided and muscles finally locked together, refusing to carry the weight. And now neither could move anymore and then Rafa collapsed like dead weight on Roger's chest, victor over the vanquished.

The loss, the defeat, this was it, losing fully and completely to Rafa - all sense of dignity and control, all those stories of the famous calm, shattering in this moment as it dissolved to nothing. Slipping away from reality. Victor and the vanquished positioned in their rightful places.

And yet, what Rafa had said, what he had meant, spoke differently to Roger's own ideas about what this was about. Rafa blurred the boundary between them suddenly - with just one broken sentence uttered in the midst of frantic incoherence - like it was never _there_ in the first place. Or at least it wasn't there _right_ _now,_ inthis moment, where one could hardly tell where Roger ended and Rafa began; in their shared air, and shared taste, their joined bodies, who was the victor and who was vanquished? Were either of them aware right now? Was any of this even about victory and defeat anymore? It had certainly been all about that when Roger had stumbled in, demanding Rafa to fuck him so he could embrace his defeat - but had he _actually_ achieved that? Rafa hadn't fucked him till he cried his desperation and felt every muscle of his body ache with defeat. No, what had Rafa done then? What had he done just now? He had given Roger sex, but not the gloating he was hoping for. Rafa hadn't gloated even once. Not once showing his status as the winner. He didn't touch him like he had earned it, he didn't kiss him like he had a right, he didn't fuck him like he owned him.

Rafa's arms were still wrapped around him, he realised, as the Spaniard shifted a little as he came down. Roger's jaw was slack, body still recovering from the intensity of the past hour though the mind was seemingly already thinking. He felt Rafa place a small kiss on his chest and shift to move off, but he stopped him with strong arms holding him there.

"T's okay," Roger croaked, his voice still gone, and allowed his fingers to weave into Rafa's hair, tangling with the dark locks. He swallowed and closed his mouth, otherwise unmoving, every limb locked in a slumber, eyes too tired to stay open suddenly. Exhausted of even thinking anymore. He could only feel Rafa pulling the duvet at their feet with his leg and snuggling them under it, letting his head rest against Roger's chest.

They would have to do a lot of talking tomorrow, a lot to take in when the morning dawned and a lot to think over. Roger was midly aware - in the last awake part of his mind - of the impending and somewhat imminent consequences awaiting them both at the breaking of dawn, for themselves as well as for others around them. But _right now_ , the night still ahead of them, still time to put it all off a few more hours, still space till they were neck deep, this was _okay_. This was enough. _More_ than enough.


End file.
